Phone Tag
by Miiko Ashida
Summary: Isumi and Waya, a phone that one won't put down and the other won't pick up. We love to torture ourselves with human drama.


Author's note: Another 55themes fic Theme #40: War with myself. It was nagging at me, so I wrote it. A link to the LJ community can be found in my userinfo. (Edited for spelling. Heh, I'm always in such a hurry. And thank you to ano-nime for pointing out the Hikaru/Shindou thing. I always think of him as "Hikaru", so that's how it came out. Too much author POV, oops.)

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_"Isumi-san? Isumi-san, I know you're there. Please pick up the phone. Look, I was a real jerk. I'm sorry, okay? Can I come over? Can I at least talk to you?"_ Sigh. _"I love you. And I'm really, really sorry."_ Click. 

-

It had been five days, fourteen hours and thirty-six minutes of no Waya. Isumi felt like shit, and knew he looked more than half the part, but he went out and got the groceries anyway. Force of habit. He turned the key in its lock slowly, deliberately, and went inside to the kitchen. He put everything away. Then he went into his room and dug up his cell phone; it was busy recording something on voicemail. Isumi knew who it was, and didn't answer.

An electronic voice answered: "You have four messages," in a jerky, impersonal monotone.

He pressed the button, waited. A pause, and then Waya's voice echoed into his ear. "I'm sorry. It was a mistake. Can we talk? It's okay if you don't want to."

The next one was a little more desperate, from two in the morning the night before. "You know what? I know you're going to listen to this, so I'll just talk. I love you, just you. I made a stupid mistake and I'll spend the rest of my life paying for it." A humorless chuckle broke the flow of words. Isumi might have felt guilty if he weren't preoccupied with being riteously angry. "Guess what? It's two AM. I'm lonely. We should be in bed. You should be pressed into me, with your arms curled around me. I shouldn't be telling you this, because it sounds pathetic. Everything isn't about sex, and I get that, all right? I just thought you should know that I–" The message was cut off with the tone that signaled the allotted time being used up.

Later in the morning, Waya had called again. His voice was vibrant with hope, "Hey, you've had time to cool off, right? Maybe we can go have coffee somewhere, talk about it. Please call me back."

And the message that had been recording as he came in:

"Isumi-san? Isumi-san, I know you're there. Please pick up the phone. Look, I was a real jerk. I'm sorry, okay? Can I come over? Can I at least talk to you?" The voice sighed. "I love you. And I'm really, really sorry."

Isumi wasn't sure whether he was lonely enough to decide that Waya was sorry enough. They'd both acted like moody teenagers, it was true, but Isumi's had been the more grievous injury. He never thought he could feel such a betrayal. He knew that Waya hadn't meant to do anything, that things had escalated and he got caught in the moment. But sleeping with Shindou– that was absurd. A horrible moral judgement, and damned if he wasn't going to pay for it.

The phone rang in his hand, startling him. Waya. If it hadn't been so pitiful, if he hadn't felt sorry for himself and upset and miserable for both of them, he could have laughed at his own jumpiness, and how ridiculous it all was. He'd spent the past five days waiting by the phone for calls that came every hour and a half, which he then refused to answer. Waiting and pretending he didn't want what he was waiting for.

And what was that? An apology? He'd gotten them in abundance. A love confession? Several times over, and a few instances where Waya had actually admitted he missed the sex. Maybe he wanted Waya to come over, to camp out on his porch and refuse to leave until he'd been let inside and they'd made up thoroughly. It was way too much to hope for.

Reaching its end, the ringing gave way to silence. Waya was leaving yet another message. "Isumi-san, this is _stupid_. We've gotten through plenty of other stuff. Hell, we survived your _parents_. I swear, if you just say one word to me that isn't angry, I'll never, never look at another guy again. I want to hear your voice. Please."

Silence descended on the room when the beep sounded, Waya's voice dying out. He'd sounded so forlorn, so sincere.

No matter how he wanted it to be, somehow it wasn't enough.


End file.
